


Nothing Hidden

by stitchcasual



Series: Kiss Me Like You Mean It [7]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Snuggling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-11-02 08:28:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10940739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchcasual/pseuds/stitchcasual
Summary: There is only one person in the world Hawke lets himself relax around.





	Nothing Hidden

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theoxfordcommando](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoxfordcommando/gifts).



> Prompt 18 (kisses where one person is sitting in the other's lap)  
> which turned into laying but it's the thought that counts
> 
> <3 <3

The night is late by the time Hawke makes it back to the estate, leaning his greatsword against the wall in the foyer as he racks his armor, waving off a sleepy-eyed Bodahn who shuffles over to help. Orana and Sandal must still be asleep in their rooms, and he moves a bit slower, a bit softer on that assumption. He eschews the silk weave of the house robe his mother bought for him when they first moved in, preferring to move about in the light leathers he wears under his armor. The fire in the grate has burned down to a subdued flicker, and as he passes through on his way to the stairs up, his eye catches the glint of light from the library. He draws the knife from the inside of his boot carefully and slips through the doorway, crouching low. 

The light is coming from the upstairs study. Possible angles for attack are few: the only way up is by the single staircase set against the bookshelves and he knows from experience that whoever’s in the study has a clear line of sight to the top of it from wherever they are. He’s at a severe disadvantage, but that’s never stopped him before. He flattens himself as best he can against the stairs, creeping up them one at a time, as silent as he can. Stealth has never been his forte and he’s never needed it to be; his large stature and intimidating demeanor work just fine for tools of the trade. So his ascent up the stairs is somewhat less than quiet, and he tenses, preparing for a fight, when he hears a throat clear.

“I promise my intentions are peaceful,” Fenris says. Hawke lets his head drop against the stairs, groaning. He can  _ hear _ the smirk in that tone, knows what face the elf is making, and sure enough, when he stands and looks over, Fenris is half-looking at him, one eyebrow raised, lips just slightly curled. His finger is pressed against a page in the book open on his lap, and he returns his gaze to it as Hawke finishes climbing the stairs, setting the boot knife down on the small table next to the sofa Fenris has installed himself on.

“You could have said something,” Hawke grumbles, sitting down heavily next to Fenris and working on pulling off his boots. Fenris just snorts and turns the page. Hawke rolls his eyes. He sets the boots together at the end of the couch and looks over at the book Fenris is reading.

_ "Hard in Hightown? _ You’ve got to be joking, Fenris, really? I’m sure I’ve something better on my shelves.”

Fenris chuckles. “Varric has been particularly insistent that I read it myself, now that I can.”

“You mean since you refused to let anyone read it to you before now.” Fenris rolls a hand and it’s Hawke’s turn to snort. “Fine, have it your way.”

“Thank—” Fenris begins to say, but he cuts off as Hawke sprawls across the couch and his lap, covering the book with his massive frame. 

“Save yourself, Fenris,” Hawke says around a yawn. “Now while you still can.”

Fenris huffs and wiggles his arms out from under Hawke’s body, resting them on top of Hawke’s chest instead. The book he abandons as a lost cause for now as Hawke lies on it, blinking up at him. He runs his hands lightly along the leather covering Hawke’s body, loosening some of the laces on the sides as he goes. Hawke hums and closes his eyes, abruptly relaxing, his deadweight sinking both of them a little farther into the cushions. 

“Are you quite comfortable?”

Hawke’s head is on the couch to one side of Fenris, his ass on the other, his back arching across Fenris’s legs, and his legs splayed, one across the arm of the couch and the other on the floor.

“Mm.” He’s a boneless heap, loose and content, but only here in his house, only with Fenris. This house is the closest he’s come to having somewhere he truly feels safe enough to let his guard down, and Fenris is the only person he’s let close enough to see him like this. Even Carver, when they served together in the army, only ever saw him alert and ready to fight. Bethany and his mother, once they made it to Kirkwall, could only ever see him as a guardian and protector; he wouldn’t allow anything else. His friends, Aveline especially, have seen more, though even to them he is the Champion first and Hawke second. There are parts of himself he keeps hidden from everyone, except...

There is nothing hidden from Fenris.

Hawke makes another happy, sleepy sound, seeking for Fenris with his hands, his eyes still closed. His right hand bumps against Fenris’s hip and rests there; his left squirms its way underneath one of Fenris’s as it tracks across his chest, and Fenris grips it, holding tight. The way Hawke can go from absolutely alert and prowling the house for a potential threat to eliminate to nearly asleep across Fenris’s lap in less than a minute has always saddened Fenris. Early in his acquaintanceship with Hawke and his friends, they had gone to the Wounded Coast, camping along the hills as they tracked a mercenary band. As they set camp and debated the watch rotation, Hawke was awake and sharp, quick to notice a flaw in a tent setup or point out a logistical error in the watch schedule. He’d helped Bethany cook their dinner, sharpened his sword, and traded barbs with Varric. Fenris remembers wondering why Hawke had elected for second watch instead of first if he was so obviously still awake, second watch being one of the tougher shifts. He’d watched, carefully, out of the corner of his eye, as Hawke spread one flap to his tent wide, leaving the other down to cover Bethany as she slept, and dragged his bedroll half out of the shelter, removing only a few small pieces of armor before laying down, hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword, and near immediately falling asleep. A true sleep. Fenris is keen enough to know when someone is feigning sleep in order to trick him, and he’d stared openly at the warrior once he knew everyone else in their camp was also asleep.

Still, all it had taken to rouse him for watch was his name, and Hawke was bolt upright and making his way to the small fire Fenris tended. The army, Hawke had said, was where he learned to sleep like that. When you knew your sleep could be interrupted at any time for any reason, you either adapted or you died. Fenris had nodded, understanding; it was much the same for any slave.

Now, Fenris leans over, lifting the hand that holds Hawke’s to brush a kiss against his knuckles, then a few more up his wrist and still-leathered forearm. Hawke sighs softly and cracks one eye open to watch. He can see the curve of Fenris’s lips though his eyes are obscured by his hair, white strands swaying gently with each movement. Fenris slowly makes his way up the rest of Hawke’s arm, laying kisses to the leather until he reaches Hawke’s throat. He traces down the veins there with his other hand, and Hawke swallows and flutters his eyes closed, tilting his head to allow Fenris greater access. Fenris makes a pleased little humming sound and nips at the flesh just below Hawke’s ear before soothing it with a kiss. Hawke groans, his hand on Fenris’s hip tightening.

Nearly laying down himself now, Fenris kisses Hawke’s jaw, both cheeks, his forehead, and the tip of his nose before pressing lis lips to Hawke’s. The kiss is gentle and sweet, neither of them moving to deepen it. They just...kiss. When Fenris finally pulls away, he brushes a thumb across Hawke’s cheek then along one eyebrow. With great care, he slips out from under Hawke, allowing the book to fall to the floor, and stretches out beside him on the couch, nestling in between Hawke’s arm and chest, pillowing his head on Hawke’s shoulder. He lifts up to kiss him once more.

“Good night, Hawke.” 

They are both asleep in seconds.


End file.
